Deal with the Dead (2 page)

Chapter One

Near Kusadisi, Turkey
Late August, the Present Day

“Flamethrower—!”

The amplified voice, accentless, ahuman, rolled from the many banks of speakers stationed around the darkened open-air arena, washing over the crowd like a pronouncement of the gods.

The darkness, as well as the answering murmur from the crowd—noise enough to precede a rock star’s entrance onto stage—made convenient cover for Halliday and his men. In such a melee as this, the three had approached the makeshift viewing stand without incident, had dealt efficiently with the guards at the bottom of the tucked-away steps, had made their way up before either of the men on the platform had noticed.

By now, Halliday and his companions sported all the proper passes, each in its little plastic pouch, each dangling from its own springy lanyard. The mustachioed Turk stationed near the top of the steps examined their credentials by the wavering glow of outdoor torches ringing the platform, then gave a respectful nod to what he had certified was a media entourage, stepping back to allow the three of them on board.

Ferol Babescu, a fabled international broker who had dealt in every illicit item to cross the black market since Mussolini came seeking arms, was sitting forward on the platform, ensconced by himself in a wicker sultan’s chair that seemed to shudder under the man’s great weight. Or perhaps it was just the growing roar of the crowd that vibrated the stand.

Halliday ignored the sounds behind him, the soft scuffing of the Turkish guard’s sneakers as he left the platform. He stared out in the direction of Babescu’s transfixed gaze—the fat man still unaware—and shook his head at the sight. Something significant seemed to have happened to the world during the time he’d been away, and Halliday was not sure if he understood quite all of it. He had come here for one simple reason, but there had been certain delays, hadn’t there, and now Babescu’s lunatic “festival”—some kind of Woodstock for the new millennium, if Halliday understood properly—was already under way.

Certain things would have to wait. And he
could
wait, Halliday thought as he surveyed the restless throng below. Waiting was one thing he had managed to learn in his time on the run.

“Quite the turnout, Babescu,” Halliday said at last.

The big man started, his expression reflecting annoyance as he turned to see who had crashed the party. “We need quiet here—” he began, as his gaze traveled to Halliday’s press credentials.

“Not much of a greeting for an old ward,” Halliday said.

Babescu hesitated, then peered more intently through the flickering torchlight. There came a slight parting of his lips as the truth sank in. By the time he had maneuvered his bulk up and out of the chair, his astonishment had overtaken all.

“Halliday…,” Babescu said.

Halliday held a finger to his lips. “Halliday’s no more.”

“It
is
you, isn’t it,” the big man said, shaking his head in wonder. He paused, and a great smile spread across his features. “I knew it all along, of course. I knew you hadn’t died…”

Halliday gave him something of a smile in return. He’d read many of the headlines himself. “Indicted Bond Trader Drowns in Mediterranean.” “Thief Overboard.” “Halliday Dies on Holiday.” So clever, the international press.

Babescu was staring at him, his native conman’s admiration slowly replacing his surprise. After a moment, he cut a glance toward the back of the stage. Wondering what had happened to his bodyguard, Halliday supposed. Wondering who Frank and Basil Wheatley were, moreover. Bulky, great-bellied Basil, and his chiseled bodybuilder brother; an unlikely pair of journalists if there ever were.

“Your man’s gone off,” Halliday explained.

Babescu peered down the steps, still clearly dazed. He shrugged. “Turks,” he said absently, as if that explained everything. He turned back to re-examine Halliday’s altered features. “You look hardly anything the same,” Babescu said, his voice still awed. “You look very good indeed.”

Halliday nodded. “I’m making a fresh start, Babescu.”

Babescu was eyeing him now. The crowd was stamping impatiently behind them, anxious for something to begin. Something flamethrower-like, thought Halliday.

“What’s brought you
here,
then, Michael…?” Babescu broke off. “Or is Michael gone as well?”

“Michael will do for now, Babescu,” Halliday said. He glanced toward the field beneath them, where a great clanking of machinery had been set up.

“Flamethrower!”
the announcer’s voice intoned again, echoing all around them.

“Let’s take up business later, shall we?” Halliday told the fat man. “For now, we’ll enjoy the show.”

***

There were many, many thousands out there beneath the dark Mediterranean sky, many of them young, many of them Americans. The first to arrive at the International Spectacle of Violent Self-Destruction had taken the choicest seats and were sitting shoulder to shoulder on the broad steps that had once led to one of the more noted temples of Artemis. Behind them, splintered Grecian columns rose up against the inky sky, and before them, on the gently sloping hillside, was spread the bulk of the crowd. Tickets bore a face value of $100 American, though none had been sold at that price for weeks. Scalpers in nearby Kusadisi were said to have been receiving several times as much in recent days.

There came an earth-gargling rumble then, accompanied by a sudden blast of light, and the noise of the crowd rose. On the flat plain below, where Alexander’s men had once camped and Hadrian’s troops were said to have run mounted races, an odd machine had sprung to life, a tangle of gleaming silver pipes mounted on clanking half-track treads, belching fire from a stainless-steel nozzle the size of a tank cannon as it advanced slowly across the field.

A spotlight mounted on scaffolding erected on the temple site snapped on then, illuminating a wooden peasant’s cottage standing in the path of the lumbering machine a few yards further along. What looked like a man stood in front of the cottage, a rifle upraised. The roar of the machine redoubled, and its fiery plume shot out like a frog’s tongue. The unfurling flame smashed into the figure with the upraised weapon, obliterating it. In the next instant, the cottage itself was engulfed. The thatched roof exploded in a shower of sparks, and the walls seemed to waver in sheets of liquid flame. The crowd bellowed its approval.

“That is some righteous shit,” Basil Wheatley said.

“Dead-on righteous,” his brother, Frank, called back.

Halliday glanced at his men. He would not have characterized the two as spiritual in nature. But the expression on their faces, reflecting the flames that still leapt from the walls of the mocked-up cottage and from the smoldering straw stuffed image of a man down below, was unmistakably rapture’s embodiment. Even those two caught up in this madness, Halliday thought. What did that suggest about himself?

“Flamethrower,”
repeated the toneless voice of the announcer, booming over the roar of the crowd. “By Andreas Volcansic.”

A second spotlight sprang to life. A man in a black duster and drooping felt hat to match loped onto the field to stand before the now idling machine he had crafted, making a virtuoso’s bow to the cheering crowd. When pasty-faced Volcansic rose, his hands held high above his head, the crowd’s appreciation reached near ecstasy.

“What do you think?” Babescu asked.

Halliday shook his head. “I’m not sure
what
to think.”

Babescu, who seemed to have recovered his composure, gave Halliday his Sydney Greenstreet, fat-man-in-the-know smile. “Just see what’s coming next,” he said.

Halliday had read about it in the international papers, of course. It was how he’d learned where Babescu was. The entire enterprise had been dreamed up by his former partner, this unlikely prophet with his finger on the drooping pulse of contemporary youth—or so he claimed—after having happened across some meager version of these proceedings during a visit to San Francisco a year or so before.

“The dark side of the technological universe,” according to the fat man, who had watched two robots constructed of earthmoving machinery tear each other to pieces on an industrial site near the Mission District.

“Most of the bright ones go to work in Silicon Valley and make millions. But there are some—an entire sector of the technologically gifted, I tell you—who will have none of that,” Babescu had been quoted. “Nothing virtual in
their
reality. I bring the best of them here at the beginning of the millennium and give them all they need to make their art.”

And made a few quid in the process, Halliday supposed, gazing out over the assembled multitudes. Though Babescu was happy to profess an appreciation for things cultural, Halliday suspected that this was as about as close as such urges would get to actual manifestation. Even allowing for some slippage, it was a $5 million gate, and that just the beginning, according to their host. There was cable to think of, worldwide distribution, not to mention next year’s event—anticipation of which would be frenzy-whipped by this year’s audience—that might take place again at Ephesus, on the playing field of the gods…or perhaps in Albania, where Babescu had hinted that the officials were not so fastidious about what might be destroyed.

At the moment, on the field below, a man had stepped into a cylindrical steel cage, which itself was suspended from the boom of a smallish loading crane. The winch of the apparatus engaged with a whine and slowly drew the caged man a dozen feet or so off the ground.
“Fire Shower
of the Apocalypse,”
intoned the announcer, as tongues of flame began to dance around the perimeter of the cage.

The crowd had quieted down during the preliminaries, but the sight of flames seemed to arouse them. A dozen yards from where Halliday stood, a young bare-chested man with half his head shaved bare, half covered with dangling blond locks, stood and began to shout,
“Cris-py—cris-py—cris-py!”
In moments, the whole crowd had taken up the chant.

The tongues of flame grew and then began to spin, becoming a solid revolving mass as the figure inside the cage was reduced to a motionless shadow.

“Cris-py—cris-py,”
the crowd chanted.

“Awesome,” Basil Wheatley said.

“Burning-bush awesome,” said his brother.

Halliday glanced at Frank. He’d known there was something familiar about the younger, somewhat better-looking half of the Wheatley team, but now with the unexpected Biblical reference, with the flames and the anticipation of gruesome death animating the man’s face, he could finally see it. Steve Reeves. Of course. All those Italian muscleman films.
Hercules. Goliath. Son of Spartacus.

How had it eluded him all these weeks stalking Babescu? Halliday wondered. Whereas older brother Basil, who could easily lift a car end off the ground, was as round as his brother was sculpted and angular, and looked as if he might be more at home scratching his backside in some hillbilly situation comedy. So much for appearances, Halliday thought. Not only had he heard what these two were capable of, he had witnessed it; and for his money, the Wheatleys were the flesh-and-blood equal of the giant cannon they’d watched earlier on their way to Babescu’s reviewing stand, a device that lobbed fifty-five-gallon drums of wet concrete the length of a football field onto the tops of junked-out Turkish delivery vans.

The steel cage, meantime, was flaming like a comet. Eerie shadows danced up the ruined columns, and the chanting of the crowd had transformed into an undifferentiated blood-drinker’s roar. Perhaps slaves had fought with lions on the plain below, Halliday thought. Perhaps these young men and women had picked up ancient vibrations from the weary stones they sat upon. Babescu, his face gone scarlet in the reflected flames, seemed a reasonable representation of a bloated Roman emperor, after all.

There was a popping sound then, and the flames extinguished abruptly. Spotlights snapped on, illuminating the dangling, smoldering cage. The door swung open, and something toppled out. Instead of a charred figure tumbling to the ground, however, here was a person making an impossible, gliding descent, tracked by the beams of the spotlights, arms outstretched, a colorful cape billowing in its wake.

A man unscathed by flames, Halliday realized, tethered now to a cable that stretched over the top of the gaping crowd. The man whizzed past the makeshift reviewing stand with a grin, and moments later came to rest atop the temple steps, where he bowed to the roaring crowd.

“Fire Shower of the Apocalypse,”
repeated the dispassionate voice of the announcer.
“Kaia Jesperson.”

Not a man at all, Halliday realized as the caped figure snatched off the cap that had shielded her long dark hair from the flames. High cheekbones, eyes dark and flashing as that great mane of hair. Halliday heard the cheering strengthen from the throng that covered the steps, and felt what the mob was feeling. They’ll have her on the spot, he understood. Ravage her to pieces and howl above the scraps for more.

In the next moment, as if whoever was in charge of choreography knew exactly what thoughts might be afloat among the masses, the powerful spotlights were extinguished. When they came on again, Kaia Jesperson had vanished. Halliday glanced at Babescu: his fat imp’s grin, his hands splayed atop his great, quivering gut in a parody of satisfaction.

“The stuff of life itself,” Babescu said.

“Amen,” said Frank Wheatley.

And the crowd roared on.

***

An hour or so later, the last of the crowd dispersed, the bizarre machinery hushed, Babescu sat in his wicker sultan’s chair, staring over his brandy glass at Halliday, who leaned casually with his back to the railing of the stand. “You might have let me know, Michael…”

Halliday shrugged. “Discretion and all that.”

“I’d have never let it slip—”

“Not intentionally, perhaps.”

Babescu’s expression was hurt. “I’ve known you since you were born. I’ve taken care of you like a father. No one could have gotten it out of me.”